


Desperate Glory

by seriousshit88



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousshit88/pseuds/seriousshit88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace<br/>Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<br/>And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,<br/>His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;<br/>If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<br/>Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,<br/>Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud<br/>Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—<br/>My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<br/>To children ardent for some desperate glory,<br/>The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est<br/>Pro patria mori.<br/>-Wilfred Owen, "Dulce et Decorum Est"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Glory

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as stream-of-consciousness thing, and then it turned into a story. I posted it on my tumblr over a year ago, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. So, I cleaned it up a little, and now I'm posting it here. I like this AU, and I want to add to it, maybe explore the other characters within it. We'll see. :)
> 
> Also, please don't look for a lot of historical accuracy here. But if I've made an egregious error of some kind, please do let me know.

Scott McCall is an undercover American agent in German occupied France, posing as an alto sax player in this tiny, grungy, smokey dive bar called The Den that mostly German soldiers and a few locals frequent. Derek, The Den’s owner, knows Scott is undercover, but he hasn’t said a word to anyone, not even Scott himself. Instead, he pulls together a few musicians who haven’t fled the occupied country and suggests they form a jazz band. Scott needs to be surrounded by trusted people, and Derek has always been a believer in safety in numbers. So The Wolf Pack is formed. 

None of the musicians are that great, but Malia has a good voice, Danny is a decent trumpet player, Boyd can keep a good beat going on the drums, Isaac doesn’t miss too many notes on his beat-up bass, Erica’s fingers fly over the piano keys, Kira needs a new reed for her clarinet but can hold a steady note, and Scott…

…can barely keep his eyes on his sheet music when a group of four beautiful people walks in one night. An impeccably dressed redhead, arm in arm with a more modest-looking brunette, leads the way to a table in the corner. They’re followed by a slightly older woman who winks at Derek while patting her side; Scott is reasonably certain she’s packing a pistol (reminding him that perhaps he shouldn't be out here unarmed himself). A gangly man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else brings up the rear. He keeps eyeing the German soldiers warily.

Scott has a good idea of who they are. His intel wasn’t complete, but it was detailed enough to clue him in. Still, he needs to hear it from someone else, just to keep up his cover. So after The Wolf Pack finishes their set and takes a break, Scott asks Derek who those people are.

“Maquis,” Derek says under his breath, out of range of the soldiers. He’s intently focused on wiping out cognac glasses, but Scott sees him look fondly at the pistol-carrying woman, who’s sharing drinks with the other women she came in with.

“Are you with them?” Scott asks innocently enough. Or as innocently as he can phrase it in French. “Part of the Resistance?”

Derek shakes his head no. “But I support them. And the Allies," he adds in English, apparently for Scott's benefit. Derek does that sometimes, says things in English for Scott, even though Scott's sure his French is impeccable.

Scott doesn’t react to the last part of Derek’s statement. He glances over at the man sitting with them and asks, “Who’s the guy? Is he Maquis, too?”

“You’re a curious man, Mr. McCall,” Derek says simply. He gathers his things and clears the bar, apparently done talking. Scott takes that as his cue to go introduce himself.

He calls it reconnaissance for the report later.

Lydia, the redhead, and her girlfriend, Allison are both upper class and have no business in a place like The Den, especially not surrounded by horny German soldiers. But they are looking for some fun on a Saturday night and decided a seedy bar would provide just the entertainment they need. Braeden is a friend of theirs who happens to also be dating Derek (Scott knew it!), so they are able to score free drinks all night. She, too, is being leered at by the soldiers at the next table over. She flashes a knife at them, mimes chopping off their testicles, and smiles sweetly as she just leaves the knife sitting on the table in plain sight.

The man with the three ladies has an unpronounceable first name.

“Stilinski,” he says thickly after Scott mangles it.

“Is that Polish?” Scott asks. 

The man looks at him and blinks a bit. He swallows a few times and then looks away. His gaze falls on a German soldier, and Scott can practically feel the righteous anger rolling off him in waves. So Scott, not wanting to lose an opportunity to surreptitiously interrogate a member of the Maquis (for the report later, of course), grabs Stilinski’s hands and pulls him onto the dingy, makeshift dance floor. Malia is back at the microphone, dueting with Kira, with Erica playing something slow on the piano. The music is soft, the voices sultry. Stilinski is somewhat bewildered. A lot, bewildered, actually. Scott doesn't blame him.

“You look like you need a break,” Scott says, a little out of breath. “And since I _am_ part of the paid entertainment for the evening, will you dance with me?”

Stilinski glances back at the women at the table. The redhead gives a subtle flick of an eyebrow at him. He turns back around, nods uncertainly and fumbles with his hands for a few agonizing seconds before Scott, smiling, puts them on his shoulders. He takes Stilinski’s hips, and he begins to sway with the music. Stilinski, however, is stiff as a board.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes, his own French heavily accented. “It’s hard for me to relax when I’m surrounded by…them.” He means the German soldiers, many of whom are drunk and being obnoxious.

“Just look at me, then,” Scott says quietly. 

And he does. Stilinski’s movements are looser, more fluid, and slip into perfect sync with Scott’s. Scott feels a tell-tale fluttering in his stomach and tries his best to forget it. Still, it's nice to be in close, non-aggressive proximity to someone. He only just now realizes how lonely his assignment is. By the time the music ends and the house lights come back up, Scott is still staring into Stilinski’s honey-brown eyes, both of them oddly reluctant to let the other go.

"Scott," Kira whispers from the stage. She looks meaningfully at his abandoned saxophone.

He blushes awkwardly and takes his hands off of Stilinski's hips, but Stilinski lingers a moment longer.

"I'm needed back onstage," Scott says, and it sounds like an apology to his ears.

Stilinski smiles and lets him go. "Thank you for the dance." He rejoins his fellow Maquis at the table and Scott watches as he slips into a quiet conversation with the three women. 

Before the night is over, Derek ends up kicking out the entire table of soldiers who were harassing Lydia, Allison, and Braeden. He threatens to tell their commanding officers where they were if he ever sees them in The Den again.

***

A few nights later, the four Maquis return. The place is nearly empty and Scott feels comfortable telling them that he knows they’re part of the French Resistance and that he’s on their side. He doesn’t give them any more details. He figures his American accented French is kind of a giveaway, so he decides to switch to Spanish at some point down the line. He's also certain they still don't trust him as far as they could throw him. They have no reason to, and Scott finds that he likes them and their reticence.

“Secrecy is important, Mr. McCall, but refusing to share crucial information can get people killed,” Allison tells him cryptically. She doesn't elaborate.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It hurts him to lie, but he has his orders. He also knows how much danger they’re already in as Maquis. But to be Maquis associating with an American spy in a German stronghold is a definite death sentence. So he feigns ignorance.

That night, Scott has a saxophone solo. The few soldiers in the bar have brought some local women with them, and apparently feel the need to impress. They heckle Scott as soon as he starts playing. He stumbles over a few of the notes. One comes out as a loud squawk, which only sets the soldiers laughing louder.

“Hey, shut up!” Stilinski yells. He stands up and faces the boisterous soldiers. “Some of us came to hear the music, not you stupid fucks bleating like dying goats!”

Lydia stifles a laugh behind her hand, and Braeden and Allison look at each other and shrug. The rest of the bar gets quiet, though, because apparently it’s rare for someone to openly talk back to a German soldier. One of the soldiers makes as if to get out of his chair and come for Stilinski when Derek just clears his throat and looks pointedly at the door. The soldier sits.

Stilinski winks at Scott. “Take it from the top.”

Scott plays for only one person for the rest of the night.

***

At closing time, Scott finds Stilinski waiting for him by the back entrance. Scott waves to the rest of the band as they each head their separate ways toward their homes.

“Thanks, Stilinski. For earlier,” he says graciously.

“Stiles. You can call me Stiles. And you’re welcome. Those assholes deserved worse than your playing.”

“Okay. Stiles. I’ve never been heck-… hey, what? Are you saying I can’t play?”

“I’m not not saying it,” Stiles says mischievously.

“I guess everybody’s a critic tonight.” Scott shakes his head and starts walking down the alley toward the street. Stiles easily catches up to him.

“You should loosen your embrasure a little. You’re choking your reed.”

Scott stops and turns to look at him. “So not just a critic?”

“Music teacher. From before. And you either haven’t played since childhood, or you only learned enough to get on with Derek. Which is it?”

Scott almost forgot Stiles is Maquis. He almost forgot that the man standing before him is a highly skilled guerrilla fighter with a quick mind and good instincts. He almost forgot his mission.

“The former,” Scott lies.

“Ah. Well, stop tensing up on the reed. And relax your shoulders. I can tell you have a good tone, you just need to stop getting in the way of it.” Stiles slaps him on the shoulder and starts as if to leave.

“Um, would you like to come over? Maybe show me what you mean?” Scott swears it’s not a pickup line; just him picking the brain of a Resistance fighter. That’s what he plans to put in the report, anyway.

The smile on Stiles’s face is all the answer Scott needs.

***

“No, no, no!” Stiles whines, pinching the bridge of his nose. They’re in Scott’s small studio apartment two blocks from The Den. When Scott invited Stiles over, he wasn’t expecting to sit through an actual music lesson. But here they both are, Scott on a small stool, Stiles in a chair, and the clock on the wall saying it’s past 1 in the morning. “Scott, stop biting the reed, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not biting the reed,” Scott says from between his teeth. This is not now his night was supposed to go.

“Yes, you are. Try it again.”

Scott tries it again. This time Stiles openly groans before Scott can finish playing the measure.

“Now you’re tightening your embrasure again. You must be someone really special if Derek let you in his bar playing like this.”

“That’s it, I’m done,” Scott says. He puts down his saxophone. “Good night, Stilinski.”

“I told you to call me St-”

“Good night.” Scott gets up and opens the door. Stiles studies him silently for a while before he walks toward him and gently closes the door, defiantly looking Scott directly in his eyes.

Scott has 5 guns hidden in strategic places all around his apartment. He’s trained in hand-to-hand combat. He knows how to kill a person in less than 3 seconds, and has actually had to do it on more occasions than he's comfortable with. He conveniently forgets all of this as Stiles pushes him up against the door and lays a filthy, needy kiss on him. His hands wander to Stiles’s close-cropped hair, and he shudders a bit as Stiles moves the kiss lower down his jaw and to his neck, sucking on his thumping pulse. He ruts into Stiles and discovers they’re both already at half mast.

“Bed?” Scott asks hoarsely.

“Bed.” Stiles confirms.

***

It's over a lot sooner than Scott would like. Neither of them lasts long, and they both laugh about it. It's still good though, and there are promises of next time. Scott senses some hesitation on Stiles's part, and Scott remembers almost too late that he's on a mission, and that mission does not include falling in love. There may not be a next time for either of them, anyway. 

Just before he dozes off, Stiles tells him he has to leave at 6. He and his team have a German railway car to blow up at 10.

***  
Stiles is up, showered, dressed, and gone by 6:30. Before leaving, he promises to stop by The Den later that night to see if the night’s lesson had paid off. Scott, still in bed and wrapped in warm bed sheets, drags Stiles in for a goodbye kiss and makes him swear he’ll be careful. Stiles does. Scott is asleep again before Stiles even leaves the apartment.

It’s another 3 hours before Scott wakes up, still cocooned in sheets that smell like the both of them. He’s smiling to himself when he spots the fake newspaper on his desk. How long had that been there?

Curious, Scott opens the paper to page 6 and looks in the second column for the coded message being sent along to him. Allied forces are planning a morning airstrike on a German train depot in the boonies harboring munitions. Today. There is no time given.

Scott is in his boots and jacket in a heartbeat. He’s on his motorcycle speeding through the streets and toward the countryside, hoping he isn’t too late.

His mission is the farthest thing from his mind. He doesn’t put that in his report.

It’s 9:34.

***  
He isn’t too late, but he’s not really in time, either. Avoiding detection by the German guards, Scott finds the Resistance fighters taking cover in a stand of trees. He's greeted with a pistol aimed between his eyes.

"Stiles! It's just me. Put the gun down and fall back!" He can hear the Allied planes in the distance. "It's not safe."

Stiles barks a derisive laugh. "We're at war, Scott. Nothing about this is safe." His grip on the gun tightens, and Scott begins to think of ways to disarm Stiles without getting either of them hurt. But they're too close. There's no way he could get the gun away from Stiles before he pulls the trigger.

"Why do you have a gun on me? I'm trying to help you! I already told you I'm on your side!" Scott pleads.

“We both have our missions, Agent McCall,” Stiles says curtly. At Scott’s shocked expression, Stiles reaches into his jacket and shoves a crumpled paper into his hands. Scott looks at it and realizes it’s a page from his report. Stiles must have swiped it from his apartment while he was sleeping. “Lydia and I are code breakers, and honestly, your code was ridiculously easy to break. I was insulted.”

“Stiles, I-”

“Oh, and you can forget about me coming to see you play tonight. And you can stop with your little ‘recon missions’. If anyone else finds out what you are, we’re dead. Stay away from us, Agent McCall.” He lowers the gun and stalks away from Scott.

Scott stands there in shock. Not only is his cover blown, but the lies he told to protect this group of Maquis ruined a relationship before it could even begin. For one horrible moment, he has no idea what to do. But the drone of plane engines makes the decision for him.

“There’s going to be an airstrike on the depot in a few minutes,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “You can either call your men back, or you can die here with them. And Stiles…” Scott rushes forward and grabs Stiles’s free hand, holding on tight enough to stop Stiles from shaking him off, “…I don’t want to see you die.”

“Airstrike? Are you telling me classified information and putting me at even more risk?”

“None of that will matter if you’re dead. I know this is war, and I've lost too many of my own people to lose you too. Stiles, please,”

Stiles searches his face for a few agonizing seconds before he orders his team to take cover behind some hills he thinks are far enough away to avoid the blasts. They’re confused, but they listen to him. He and Scott are the last to follow, tightly clutching each others hands as the first bombs begin to fall.

***

It’s later that evening. The train depot is destroyed, and the Maquis suffer no casualties. Stiles and his men have been debriefed, and now Stiles is back at Scott’s apartment. He doesn’t stay mad for long.

Derek calls to tell Scott that he's giving the band the night off. He doesn’t explain why, and Scott doesn’t ask. He isn’t planning on going, anyway. Scott hangs up the phone and turns to Stiles, who has once again taken up residence in the chair.

“Stop writing about us in your reports,” Stiles says as he ghosts his fingers over the saxophone’s keys. “We already have people working with the Americans.”

“Okay,” Scott says easily.

“And stop lying. You’re terrible at it.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Only if you promise not to ask me something I can’t answer or to do something that would jeopardize my assignment. I don’t know how many laws I broke just telling you about the airstrike. But I couldn’t let you get hurt, so…thanks for spilling Maquis tactical secrets while you were in a post-orgasmic haze, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles nods. Then he shakes his head. "We had a feeling you weren't who you said you were. Your cover is fine, but your American accent raises a lot of suspicion. I didn't tell them what I learned, though. Your secret is safe with me. But you need to be careful. I can't let Allison or Braeden hear about...this." 

"Are you asking me to cover my ass so your ass is also covered?" Scott asks. "You're putting a lot of trust in me."

Stiles presses a few of the saxophone's keys, silently playing a song only he could hear. "I don't know what it is about you that makes me trust you. Should I be worried?"

"Probably," Scott says honestly. "I've seen a lot of things I'd like to forget. _Done_ a lot of things I'd like to forget. I'm a dangerous person to get to know."

"Is that why you're alone in the field?" Stiles looks at Scott with a curious expression. 

Scott slumps on his bed, suddenly exhausted. Lonely. “I don't know. But today made me realize how much I miss not having to make life and death decisions. How much I miss being home safe. I haven’t spoken to my mother in 4 months. She's the only family I have, and I keep telling myself that I’m here protecting her, but sometimes it’s hard to believe that. You're the first person I've had meaningful contact with in months, and I was so happy to finally have someone to talk to that I almost blew my mission. The mission I can't tell you about, so please don't ask me."

Stiles says nothing. A haunted look comes over him. It’s a look that Scott knows well. He doesn’t pry, just lets Stiles tell him in his own time.

“They killed mine,” Stiles starts off softly. “My mother. She refused to wear the yellow badge, so a German soldier shot her in the back and killed her. Then they took my father. I don’t know where he is. I still don’t know why they didn’t take me.” His voice wavers just a little. “They’re the reason I fight. They're the reason I escaped to France.”

Scott wants to know how Stiles, a Jewish Pole, made it out of Poland and into France undetected, but he leaves that question for another time. Instead, Scott pats the bed beside him. “Come here, Stilinski.”

Not even protesting at the use of his full name, Stiles goes over and sits beside Scott, who immediately pulls him into a tight hug. “We’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because.” He nuzzles Stiles’s temple, rests his cheek in his hair. “We have to be.”

“That’s not a real reason,” Stiles says.

“Because I’ll be here playing my sax until the war ends or I’m assigned elsewhere or I’m court martialled.”

“Oh, dear God, no.”

Scott laughs and then Stiles is laughing with him. Or at him. It doesn’t matter. It’s a sweet sound that Scott hopes to hear for many days to come. They both have dark secrets and painful memories, but the very things isolating them from other people have brought them together, and Scott is grateful for the odd twist of fate.

And now Stiles is showing him some interesting things they can do with their lips, together, and at the same time. They get lost in the kisses and the touches. For a brief moment, they manage to forget the war, forget the missions, forget the pain, forget the secrets. Right now, they only know each other. And that’s just fine with them.


End file.
